


How to Be a Pirate: Revisited

by taylor_renae



Category: How to Train Your Dragon (Movies)
Genre: Eret being the cool guy the kids love, F/M, Hiccstrid kiddos, Parenting Troubles, Toothless being protective of Hiccstrid spawn, baby skrill also
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-24
Updated: 2015-02-24
Packaged: 2018-03-14 22:40:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3428150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taylor_renae/pseuds/taylor_renae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hiccup's daughter is clumsy, sarcastic, slightly anti-social and believes she is nothing like her father--despite what others tell her. With a flightless dragon, she's desperate for a chance to prove herself to her village, most of all her father. After a rather suspicious shipwreck, she rescues an injured Outcast lad hoping to bring peace between the tribes. Naturally, it doesn't go as well as she hoped. Originally on Fanficiton.net</p>
            </blockquote>





	How to Be a Pirate: Revisited

**Author's Note:**

> Hello again, all! If you haven’t read the note on my page (This was originally on fanfiction)—or if the stupid page didn’t save, in which case, I’m sorry—I’m re-writing my How to Be a Pirate story. Don’t worry, there is a method to my madness and you’ll most likely see what it is. Warning: Some things will be waaaay different, other things not so much. I’ll keep the original version online for a few months after I’ve finish writing and posting this. Thanks so much for reading and staying with me all this time! I promise I won’t write all these intros over and over and over. P.S. I will probably post the second chapter much later, just a warning, but I may have other chapters done by the time I do.

Chapter One  
Prologue

People have always told me how alike my father and I are. They’ve always mentioned how we look alike; same rawboned build, same long, thin face, same auburn hair and same green eyes—my father’s eyes and my own aren’t the same once you got up close, however. They have the same shape and shade, but mine have a large splotch of light blue staining my left eye. And that’s pretty much where the similarities end. As far as how we move, act, and pretty much do anything else we could not be more different. Where my father holds his head high with eyes fixed unwaveringly on his destination and walks with confident and sure-footed strides, I look to either the horizon or the ground for fear of it suddenly attacking once I break eye contact. I drag my feet and slump, moving with rushed, timid steps and always finding myself underfoot somehow. My father always had a way of sorting out a problem in the best way and often the way that made everyone involved happy. Not always, of course, but often enough so that he has been considered a great leader since before I was born. Do I agree with that assertion? Yes I do. He was just a natural born leader from day one, I suppose.

Once when I stomped up to my mother and told her in a fit of frustration that I was nothing like either of my parents. She threw back her head and laughed like I had told a hilarious joke. I wasn’t much like my mother at all, for certain. The green of my eyes surrounding the small splatter of blue was almost like a reflection of my personality based on my parents—the blue was my helpful nature as well as my urge to prove myself. The green was my eagerness to solve problems, determination to please and secret desire to create peace and change throughout the world… Well, I don’t know where exactly they come from. “You’re more like him than you know, little girl. My hope for you is that one day you’ll find out how.” She had told me.

If my father was a great leader his whole life then I would always be an awful one. I didn’t assert myself, I wasn’t bold enough to speak loud enough or to speak my mind, and even if I could, I could never find the words or perform actions remarkable enough to change minds. But that wasn’t a great issue for me; I was never going to lead our tribe anyway. That was my big brothers’ destiny. Being a male twelve minutes my senior, my twin brother was always following my father into meetings and appointments so that he could soak up all our chiefs’ deft mannerisms. He was the apple of our fathers’ eye, a spitting image of my mother and the pride of our tribe… maybe that was why my father doted on his boy but only dearly loved his little girl. Under no circumstance did I doubt my fathers’ love for me, for it was clear for anyone to see. He would come home and ruffle my messy hair, later on kissing my forehead and telling me he loved me every night before I went to my room to sleep. Whenever he had time he would ask me about my day or what I’ve been working on since last we spoke. He yelled at me when I deserved it, sometimes even less than I deserved, but other times it seemed almost as if he was trying to figure out how best to deal with me. But it was how my father treated my brother that made the difference in his affections so clear to me. My father gave my brother lectures, made him think and work harder, scolded him when he needed it and, on occasion, got into fights with him, almost as often as he got into fights with my mother. That’s how I could tell he loved my brother and I differently.

The greatest difference between my father and I is probably the most shameful thing to me. Probably to him, too; I am bonded to a flightless dragon. Not that the shame rests with my dragon, of course; she could never cause shame for me. No, it’s completely my doing. I don’t know if it’s how I’ve trained her or lack of training or lack of confidence or whatever, but she has never been able to fly. My father first brought my sweet dragon home as an egg when I was eight. It was found resting at the top of an ice-burg with three others, two of which were crushed in the flight back to the island, one was kept for observation and the last was given to me. My brother already owned a baby Timberjack he liked to set after me like a hunting dragon on a wild boar, and with the average age on our island for possessing young dragons being seven to nine my father thought it a good idea to start me out with my own dragon. No one knew exactly what would hatch from the eggs once the hatched, many were hoping for a new species, but what emerged from the little splattered white-and-grey ovum was something no one apparently wanted to see.

I’ve remembered the night she was born for years; it was during a lightning storm and I couldn’t get to sleep. My brother was already sleeping loudly in the bed across the room and I was wide awake, staring at my egg, watching as the white light from the sky outside illuminated the room, making all the monsters in the dark momentarily disappear. For a while, I thought it was a trick of the light making the egg shake, but I soon realized as a blue light emitted from the base of the egg and spread to cover the surface that it was no mere rally of the eyes; my dragon was hatching. I sprang out of bed on small, bare, eight year-old feet and crept to the dresser where the egg had rested for the several days I had it in my possession. The light got brighter and brighter until it was so bright I had to squint, cracks forming and dilating across the speckled surface, blue light escaping through the gaps. I crouched down quick, covering my ears at the whip-like sound that exploded with the walls of the egg. I didn’t need to collect courage to peer over the dresser’s edge and glimpse my dragon; the excitement and fascination easily conquered any fear I may have had. It was still dark in the room, but the afterglow of the little reptiles’ escape blast gave me plenty of light to see the blueish-purple scales and tiny spine ridges, the parchment-thin wings trying to stretch out as miniscule teeth attempted to break completely away from the shelled prison it had developed in. I squealed softly in delight, the sound catching the ear of the tiny beast, abandoning its attempt for liberation to observe my face in the pitch surrounding us. Our young, curious eyes met in the darkness and held, pondering the relationship between us. Was I her mother now? Or her sister? Or something else entirely?

I slowly reached for the little creature, watching it hesitate a short moment before welcoming my embrace and curling into my chest once I picked it up and brought it close. I then promptly ran to my parents’ room with my new offspring and shook my sleeping father by his bare arm with excitement. It took me a few tries to finally rouse him, and once I did it was too dark for him to see and too early in the morning for him to understand what I had in my skinny arms. I kept crying out “My dragon, my dragon!” to him and he kept hushing me for fear of waking my mother. He called to the great black dragon sleeping in the corner and discovered he had already woken and rushed to my side to sniff the bundle in my arms. The dragon lit the hearth in the center of the room upon my father’s request before turning and growling aggressively when he recognized the scent of the newborn. The rumbling startled me and I backed into the bedside table behind me. My father jumped out of bed and quieted the usually sweet beast before he opened my arms to glimpse the infant I was holding. He stared at it in silence before turning to my sleeping mother and shook her awake.

“Astrid, is that what I think it is?” he asked her in a quiet yet urgent voice once she had sat up sleepily. She squinted irritably at the little creature stretching and squirming about in my arms until realization dawned like the sun on her pretty face, the expression soon turning to alarm.

“Get it away from her!” she whispered imperatively as she scrambled out of bed. My father gently wrestled the poor confused animal from me, both of us starting to cry out for one another as he rushed out and down the stairs into the front room, not even bothering to grab a tunic on his way down, his dragon at his heels and me trailing close behind.

“Toothless, light the fire for us,” he ordered, his dragon complying, keeping close to my fathers’ side to watch the tiny death threat he set down on the table in the center of the room. My mother ran from the house at my fathers’ request to fetch the record keeper of the Book of Dragons and the observer of the other egg as my father sat me down on his seat at the table, trying to explain the danger I was in if I kept this teeny monster but was interrupted as the monster in question flapped and struggled across the table, screeching weakly to me. He picked up the little thing and set it back down at the opposite end of the table, carefully avoiding its snapping jaws, the minute teeth desperately trying to snag his flesh in their grasp.

Before long my mother returned with the great blonde man with the other egg in his grasp, his mussed hair and the circles beneath his eyes indicated that he had been sleeping, but possessed no signs of fatigue beyond that. He smiled anxiously at me when he entered, but I was too distraught to return it. He stared at my dragon, still struggling feebly to get back to me. When it got too close Toothless leaped to my side and snarled, making the baby hesitate and cower back for a moment before inching forward again.

“I think your girl has imprinted herself on the little guy by mistake,” Fishlegs said gravely.

“Little gal. It’s a girl,” my father corrected, “has the other one showed any signs of hatching?”

“None. But when it does I’d like to be there. In the meantime, what do we do with _that_?” he spat as if the word itself could attack at any moment. My father shook his head.

“We keep it away from Less for one,” he raised his voice to be heard over my wail, “but we keep it close and raise it kindly, like any other dragon. If we raise it right it could be on our side, and think of what we could accomplish with a _Skrill_ in our midst?”

“And how will we do that without Less? Look at them,” my mother gestured to the brave little beast, desperately trying to reach me, “I think they’ve bonded. You did want to get her a dragon of her own.”

“You’re really not helping,” my father sighed in return. He observed the two of us and withered slightly when he saw the puppy-dog look I had on my face, “Oh, sweetheart, please don’t make this harder than it already is. You have no idea how dangerous this dragon could be when it grows up.” He turned back to Fishlegs, “Do we have any record of baby Skrills in the Book of Dragons?”

“No, only adults and adolescents. And from the look of it, it may not be pleasant even if Less raises and trains it.”

“Could it use its lightning to hurt her?”

“I don’t think so; I’ve read that they don’t develop their lightning shot ability until they learn how to fly. It makes sense when you think about it; they summon their lightning from storms and then store it in their bellies, so if they can’t fly then they can shoot lightning.”

My father considered this for a while. He looked to my mother, “Is this really something we can risk?” he asked in a quiet voice. She took a moment before shaking her head doubtfully. I began to wail again, louder this time. My father cringed and rushed to me, trying desperately to hush me before I woke my brother—something he needn’t worry about; a Thunderdrum attack couldn’t wake him up. He was unsuccessful, anyhow. Eventually Fishlegs couldn’t stand my moans and tears and went back home with his egg in tow. My mother forced my father to go back to bed as she tried to settle me back to sleep. She didn’t have much luck, either. I sobbed and blubbered until she was too tired to continue and gave me my dragon, which had been making just as much noise as I was. As soon as the dragon was back in my hands we both quieted, the dragon falling asleep almost immediately and my mother sent me begrudgingly back to bed as she returned to her own. I didn’t sleep, however, for I was needlessly afraid that as soon as I went to sleep the dragon would be taken from me.

I kept her close to me all throughout the next day, allowing the little thing to clutch at my upper arms with sharp claws whenever I couldn’t use my hands to hold her. My father stared resentfully at the dragon when he was near as it curled around my shoulders and tangled with my moderately short hair, almost as if he was expecting to grow huge and attack in a fraction of a second. In the afternoon that day, my father must have sent Eret to try to coax me into letting the dragon go, but I wouldn’t have it. Eret always loved to play with and be around my brother and I, as well as most of the youths on the island, perhaps because he had no kids of his own. Because he was so much fun to play with we usually always rushed to do whatever he asked of us; that was why whenever my parents had reached their wits’ end trying to convince my brother or I of something and simply didn’t have any time to change our minds they would call upon Eret. But when it came to him asking me to set my dragon aside his attempts were completely in vain and eventually he went away a bit chafed. I would not let her go for anything, and I could sense she felt the same way.

I had several weeks of restless nights after that; still afraid that if I fell asleep I would wake up and my dragon would have been taken from me for ‘safety reasons.’ This grew to be concerning for my parents who couldn’t help noticing me falling asleep over my meals while my dragon ate a rather large portion of whatever meats or fish were on my plate. They tried to assert the “no dragons at the table, Less,” rule but I would whine anytime the idea was proposed to me. It got to the point where my parents would go so far as sit with me at bedtime to assure that I actually fell asleep. It did help a little; I got a few hours of sleep, but waking up repeatedly must have become a habit that I kept even after I was sure my parents were letting me keep my dragon, because three or four hours after they were gone I would wake again and couldn’t get back to sleep. I had more energy throughout the days than before, but still I was exhausted enough that my mother took me to Gothi. She gave me herbs to put in a tea to drink before bed, but I only actually drank it once in a fortnight. I didn’t get a full night’s rest until my dragon was large enough to wrap her wings and tail around my body, her waxy wings were surprisingly strong and warm. I hardly needed a blanket to cover us both anymore. While her body was close to that of a medium-size dog, her wingspan was at least a third larger than the length of the rest of her body, not counting her long spiny tale. As her talons got sharper, my father forged me a sort of iron shoulder pad to keep my skin from being torn from my bones. I wore it often until my dragon was just too big and heavy to carry upon my shoulder anymore. Even then I wore it; it was my only armor I owned and everyone else seemed to arm themselves in some way, and besides, I really liked it. My father _did_ make it for me, anyway. To be honest, I don’t think my father—or his dragon, for that matter—every fully accepted my dragon. They never developed a trust with her for reasons I don’t understand. I asked my mother why once, but she doesn’t always give me straight answers, preferring to leave things up for interpretation.

I swear she finds all this funny—not my father’s distrust for my dragon, I mean, all the doubts and theories I’ve had about these sorts of things. I don’t think she’s the only one, either. Although my brother was the one working in his forge in his spare time, I’m pretty sure Gobber favored me more. I don’t know exactly why—I suppose simply because I amuse him. Often time I came to unload my doubts and struggles to him while he was working—on dragons, not metals; it was much less frightening to me being around the large, sharp teeth of a dragon with fire in its veins as opposed to molten death about to be hammered into a weapon designed to blow out the lives of men like candles. When I confided in him, Gobber would often chuckle and say my father had similar troubles when he was my age… he said it so often that I rarely believed him. It got to the point wherein I sort of thought he was only trying to make me feel better, as much as Gobber preferred to leave things with a salty residue rather than sugarcoat them.  
The other Skrill egg never hatched. It made little to no impact to my dragon, however; she never knew what she lost before her birth. She wouldn’t have had a mother even if my father hadn’t taken her back to me, and now she does. But what she didn’t have for a long time was a name. My father knew the names of practically every other dragon on the island, but when it came to my dragon—if he acknowledged it—he would ask me what to call it (always _it_ and never _her_ ) and I wouldn’t know what to say. My brother once suggested ‘Flitless’ and I would’ve hit him for it had my father not held me back. He assured me once again that Toothless couldn’t fly without _him_ , so I shouldn’t let my brothers’ comments get to me the way they do. I’m sure it would have been comforting to me if not for the fact that she couldn’t fly _with_ me, either. Instead of flying all over the island (It was a big rule that dragon owners under the age of seventeen [my father had raised it since he became chief on account of the trouble he got into when he was younger] unless instructed to by an adult) we ran, racing each other until I couldn’t go any farther. Then I would hop onto her back and she would continue until she would collapse in an exhausted heap. When we got back our breath we would begin again. I considered the name ‘Storm Runner,’ and that would have been a good one, but I thought it was too close to Stormfly, my mothers’ dragon. I also considered ‘Outshine’ and ‘Ashnir’ and ‘Wisteria’ and ‘Zaffre,’ but nothing seemed right. ‘Static’ was the one that held my attention the most because static was what surrounded us whenever I bristled with anger; whenever I bristled, she bristled.

A night reminiscent of the night she was born, my dragon was wrapped around my forever small body as the lightning lit the sky and the thunder sang us to sleep. I remember dreaming about darkness, and me being in the center of it. There were no smells or sounds to give me comfort or hint of my surroundings, and when I opened my mouth to call out it filled with ash and choked me. When I saw no other option, I ran. I ran through the darkness for what seemed like forever, but I didn’t tire like I should have. My breath was lost and I had a sheen of sweat, but my legs didn’t grow heavy until I saw sparks far ahead of me. It looked like a flash of lightning, but was far too small and close to the ground to truly be lightning. It blazed for a few seconds before disappearing and I desperately tried to run faster for some reprieve from the dark that seemed to press into the space I left behind as I moved, but I began to tire until it felt like I was wading through deep water. The sparks became more and more frequent and longer all the while. A thousand years since I began running through the dark I reached the light. I stretched my fingers around it as if it were a corporeal object I could seize and it seemed to grow and travel over every inch of my body, encompassing my form with its blue shock. The magnificent tickle it brought numbed my skin, and with the feeling came a thought that felt disembodied—as if it was not just me that put the notion in my head—that I was one with the lightning and I sensed that no pain could touch me when the lightning surrounded me like a protective shell. Something was tickling my ear—a sound, no, a voice just beyond my hearing, whispering to me in words I couldn’t quite hear nor understand coming from somewhere behind me—or maybe beside me? It was too difficult to tell in the immeasurable shadow surrounding. As I turned to see if I could locate it, I realized far too late that I wasn’t alone in the darkness. I barely saw the faint glint of silver shining off massive teeth before the jaw of some immense animal—a dragon, for sure—unlocked and I awoke when it lunged at me. Although the ending of the dream itself was frightening, I was seized by excitement regardless. I leaped from bed with my dragon still wrapped around my body and ran to my parent’s room up the stairs, the dream already half forgotten. I shook my father awake frantically by the arm and after a few moments he woke with a start.

“Less? Sweetheart, what’s wrong?” he asked with no sign of sleep muddling his voice as he sat up.

“You’ve given me a storm, and her name is Static!” I announced with wind in my voice as if I had just landed on solid ground after flying.

 

 

 


End file.
